by Jonas Saul
The bag in his hand grew heavier with each passing minute. He set it on the table and slid out the scrapbook.
“Honey, I got a great deal on the scrapbook from the store. They had a pre-Christmas sale and I just couldn’t resist.”
He glanced at his wife on the couch, his smile widening until his cheeks lifted with the effort.
“You see that?” he asked. “This is a Duchenne smile, the only authentic smile in the eighteen known versions of the smile known to man.” He stepped closer to her. “I’ll explain the differences. With a real smile, the Duchenne, it uses two of the major muscles in the face. The zygomatic and the orbicularis. The zygomatic raises the corners of the mouth like so.” He pointed at the corners of his mouth for her benefit. “And the orbicularis raises the cheeks enough to cause what people refer to as crow’s feet. See?” He pointed at a spot by his temple. “That’s a real smile from a guy who is really happy. Are you happy, honey?”
He detected a slight nod.
“Good to hear,” Jeffrey whispered as he stepped back and retrieved the scrapbook. “Inside this book is where I’ll place Jason’s lock of hair and a few of the pictures we have of him. I’ll keep the scrapbook in his room.”
Jeffrey set the scrapbook on the table and reached into the bag. “The store had a sale on watercolors, and I picked up some great brushes as well. Our family portrait will be stunning.”
He turned to her on the couch and offered his Duchenne smile again, white teeth showing, cheeks and mouth lifted as high as they could go. After holding the smile for several seconds, he rummaged in the bag one more time.
“I also bought a few extra frames for the pictures we took recently.”
Jeffrey trudged over to the couch where his new wife sat on the middle cushion. Beside her were other pictures laid out of a family she had once maintained. A man Jeffrey recognized as Stephen Marcello was in a few. That would have to be taken care of. Once all traces of Stephen Marcello were removed, the pics would be placed in the new frames, at which point the family photos of his new kin could be hung throughout the house.
“It’s going to be so grand to have you all to myself. You and Jason are going to love it here. Tonight’s a pizza night to celebrate our first day as a married couple.” He stopped as the light reflecting off the wedding band on his finger caught his eye. “I’m so happy to have found you, baby. We’ll make a good team.” He glanced at her and saw the image he’d been talking to since walking in the door. A moment of raw lucidity offered clarity on a day otherwise filled with fantasy and daydreams. He drew his head back in surprise.
Since entering the apartment, he had been talking to a 13x19 photo of Melissa Marcello plucked from the Marcello farmhouse and placed on the middle cushion of Jeffrey’s couch.
He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. It couldn’t be. He was married to her now. They had a son named Jason. Stephen Marcello had pretended to be hers, but Jeffrey had taken the role of father of the house when he’d taken the man’s soul.
Jeffrey opened his eyes and saw the truth. His new wife sat on the couch smiling at him. She loved him. She would make love to him every day and together they would raise Jason as their son until Jason left for university.
When Jason left, Jeffrey and his new bride would only be a married couple and that wasn’t enough. He got bored easily. He would preempt that, needing a new family in eighteen months, maybe in two years. But none of that mattered now. He had his wife and he had his son.
He caressed the edge of her cheek, touched the ring on her finger, then rubbed his own.
“It’s time to start the family portrait.”
Jeffrey rose from the couch and set up his tools by the easel. He disrobed and tossed his clothes on the chair beside the couch.
“I always paint in the nude,” he said to Melissa. “At least until our son returns from school, which gives me a few hours.”
He lifted an HB pencil, pushing his 4B and 6B aside for shading later.
“Once I’ve done our portrait, it’ll hang nicely by our table.” He held the pencil, suspended in the air, hovering by the blank page. “And so begins our time together.” The picture on the couch smiled back at him. Her lips parted wide as if she was trying the Duchenne smile, too. “Thank you, darling. That means so much to me.”
With his free hand, he touched his flaccid penis where his new wife’s vaginal secretions had left white flakes of crust near the base. Thoughts of her last night, how it felt to be inside her, making a new family, came back to him.
“What a night we had, eh honey?”
The pencil touched the canvas and Jeffrey began creating family memories that would last as long as he allowed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
the layover in Miami was uneventful. The second leg of travel would fly him directly into Manaus’ international airport.
While waiting for his next flight, he texted Cindy, but got no response. She was probably sleeping. He texted again, this time a longer message to let her know he was feeling much better and would be home within a couple of days. Once it sent and he checked email to see if there was anything from Kirk on the Joslin murder case—there wasn’t—he turned off his phone to conserve the battery.
Within a half hour, he boarded the flight, settled into his seat with a blanket wrapped up over his shoulders, and promptly fell asleep, the Lee Child paperback in his bag all but forgotten.
The bump on the tarmac snapped him awake. In a brief moment of delirium, Jake wondered where he was, grasping at his armrest. Then it all came rushing back and he opened the window shade to look out at Manaus, Brazil. From the tarmac, as the plane slowed and began to taxi into the terminal, he couldn’t see much. A perimeter of thick trees lined the outer edge of the airport property. The surrounding terrain was prairie flat, with no hills of any kind towering above the tree line in the distance. In the blue sky above, white fluffy clouds floated by. From the inside of the aircraft, it looked like a gorgeous day.
He retrieved his cell phone and powered it up. He wondered if his roaming would offer him cell coverage in Manaus. While he waited for his phone to connect, Jake stretched his limbs, allowing a small grunt to escape his throat.
The two seats beside him were empty. Across the aisle, a small child watched him. He smiled at the little boy, then looked up at the child’s mother, who offered him a welcoming smile in return.
He probably looked like shit. He’d left the Orillia hospital in a hurry. Fueled up on caffeine, he forced himself to stay awake, which hadn’t lasted long on the second flight, then slept the rest of the way. Hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot, smiling at random children, did not beget welcoming smiles from mothers. He must have misread her grin because now she had placed a comforting arm over her child and looked away.
The plane stopped abruptly, jolting everyone. As the passengers jumped from their seats and voices rose to be heard over one another, Jake checked his phone again.
Nothing. No cell coverage, no service. He frowned. Maybe he should have checked that out before he’d left Toronto.
After stuffing his phone into his pocket, he snatched his bag from the overhead bins and joined the line exiting the plane. Within twenty minutes, he had made it to customs, cleared through without an issue, and stepped outside into the warmth of the Manaus sunshine.
On his way to the taxi line, he opened the text from Luke. Hotel Amazonias. Luke said he would tell them to expect Jake.
The taxi driver spoke Portuguese, but his English was passable. He understood the name of the hotel without an issue and they were soon en route.
The man in the overcoat at the Toronto airport haunted him. Jake turned in his seat and watched the buildings sweeping by the vehicle’s windows. Whatever that man wanted, it would have to wait. Jake had a feeling he’d meet him again soon enough.
Less than ten minutes later, Jake paid the driver in what little Canadian currency he had on him—overpaid in order for the driver to take the money and do t
he currency conversion on his own time—and entered the main lobby of the small Hotel Amazonias. It was a tiny, quaint lobby that had a tropical feel to it. Evenly spaced tropical plants surrounded the outer wall of the lobby. Some with thin leaves, others with fat, wide green leaves.
A string of lights hung from the ceiling along the back wall, directly above a small seating area. Jake moved farther inside until he stopped at the empty main desk. Someone was talking in the back room attached to the main desk, but Jake couldn’t understand what they were saying. He assumed they were on the phone. He waited a moment, then hit the bell for service, suddenly exhausted.
The male voice said a couple of more words, then stepped out.
“Good afternoon. Olá. How can I help you?”
“My friend is staying here. He’s expecting me.”
“Your name, sir?” The clerk’s English sounded British.
“Jake Wood.”
The clerk typed on a keyboard and stared at the screen in front of him. “Passport please?” he asked, without looking up, his hand outstretched.
Jake fumbled in his bag to retrieve his passport, then handed it over. Once the clerk checked his name, he grabbed a keycard, swiped it through a reader, and handed it to Jake.
“Room 204. Your friend has you listed as a guest. You’re welcome to the continental breakfast over there”—he gestured toward a set of double doors— “and the brochures for tours and shows at our opera house are on that rack there.”
“Thank you.” Jake grabbed his passport and started for the stairs.
On the second floor, he found room 204 and knocked. After no one answered, he knocked again, then slipped the keycard in and opened the door a crack.
“Luke?” he called. “You here?”
When no one answered, Jake stepped inside and closed the door. The room was small, but it had two beds. They were both made up. It was obvious that Luke had used the one closest to the window as his bags crowded it and his laptop sat on the end table.
Jake dropped his bag on his bed and entered the bathroom to splash water on his face. When he stepped out of the bathroom feeling refreshed, he saw a note taped to the TV. Jake snatched it up and read.
I’m on a tour of the Amazon with a company that does, “Tours by Locals.” I will be gone for three days. Please join me. Once you’ve rested and had dinner, call the number below and tell them who you are. The “Tours by Locals” people know where I am. I’ve arranged for you to join me in the Amazon Rainforest. They will send a guide and a tracker. These two men have already been paid for and are expecting your call. They will explain everything. Meet them at six in the morning and the guide will take you to my location. Once you’re with me, I will update you. Two days from now, we can head back to Canada with all the evidence we need, but I can’t speak on an open phone line or in public. Just meet me in the Amazon Rainforest and everything will make sense. I sure hope you’re reading this letter and you made it safely to Manaus.
Remember, call the number below. They’re expecting you. Have dinner and charge it to the room. Or order in—doesn’t matter.
Just meet me. I’ll explain everything when we get together.
I’m sorry to drag you into this in such a manner, but there was no other way. They were watching me and now I suspect they’re watching you. But don’t worry, they’d be stupid to go after you—you’re a cop.
So many people have died. You’re the only one who can fix this.
Be careful,
Luke
Watching him? Of course they were watching him. But Jake suspected the man in the overcoat hadn’t traveled to Manaus just to follow him. He hadn’t seen anything untoward since leaving Toronto.
Was Luke paranoid? What could he possibly be working on that was so important?
Jake folded the note and stuffed it in his front pocket.
So many people have died. You’re the only one who can fix this. What did that mean? Who had died?
Jake slipped his passport into his bag, grabbed his bank card and what cash he had left, then snatched up the phone in the room and dialed the number Luke had provided. A man answered on the second ring and explained in fluent English how he was waiting for Jake’s call.
“It was unorthodox for your friend to pay in advance,” the man said.
“Luke is an unorthodox kind of guy.”
“I have two men who will meet you at the pier at six in the morning. Can you make it to the pier on your own or would you like I send a taxi?”
“Send a taxi with instructions for the driver. That way I won’t get lost, as I’m sure the pier is a large place.”
“I understand. Okay, taxi at your hotel at 5:45 a.m. Everything is paid for as well. Please dress for the jungle. All the supplies you will need my men will have.”
“I’ll be ready.” Jake hung up the phone and headed for the door, excited about meeting up with Luke in the morning.
He exited the room and retrieved his cell phone to see if there was any coverage yet. A small piece of paper stuck to the outside of the phone. He frowned as it floated to the carpeted floor, not remembering putting anything in his pocket.
He grabbed it and read.
Stay in Toronto. Don’t go to Brazil. You will die down there.
“What the hell?” he whispered.
Staring at the note, it all came clear to him. The man in the overcoat had bumped into him at the Starbucks at the airport. He’d slipped the paper in Jake’s pocket and watched him to see if he’d read it. But Jake hadn’t read the note, so the man in the overcoat continued to watch him, then slipped out the exit.
“You won’t make it home,” Jake said as he started toward the lobby.
What was Luke messed up in? People had died? And now an Ontario Provincial Police Homicide Detective was being threatened. There was something intriguing going on here. It was what made him a cop—a damn good cop. This sort of thing spurred him on.
Whoever was after Luke, or trying to stop him, had now come on Jake’s radar and like a predator with its teeth sunk deep in flesh, Jake would not let go until there was a resolution.
When he entered the lobby to ask the desk clerk where the closest bank machine was, a smile was pasted on Jake’s face.
He had a lot of questions for the man in the overcoat.
He would be seeing that man again.
Soon. Real soon.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jake left the hotel and secured money from a bank machine. Prior to dinner, as the sun began its descent, he decided to wander the streets of Manaus as it would be his only chance to see some of the Brazilian city. Within three days, he’d be on a plane bound for home.
The streets were busy, cars and busses vying for tarmac as they forged their way through wandering pedestrians. Men walked by in droves, pushing shopping carts, some empty, some offering wares for sale, while other carts were filled with the owners’ earthly possessions.
At a street market, he was struck with an odd sense of déjà vu. The sellers stood in front of their small square stalls offering everything from trinkets, jewelry, and souvenirs, to soccer balls and Frisbees. Just like Mercado 28 in Cancun, Mexico, an outdoor market he’d visited on a trip to Cancun several years earlier.
A quick walk through the market took him to a less busy area. He crossed the street at the light and wandered into an open park with freshly cut grass where couples strolled in the dusk, arm in arm. It made him miss Cindy. He wondered what she was doing at that moment. When he got back to the hotel, he’d have to get his phone working on their WiFi in order to at least email her. Or maybe he’d use the room’s phone and just call her.
A large building loomed to his right, the windows aglow with an amber light from inside.
“The Amazonas Opera House,” a man said to his left.
Jake spun around. A uniformed police officer stood five feet away. The man was tall and thick, his chest covered in a Kevlar vest with small pockets overloaded with supplies. Pepper spray
was attached to the vest in a small pocket on the man’s left, and a thin wire ran up to an earpiece tucked away in his ear. The light-blue uniform was dappled with insignia on epaulets, sleeves, and chest. A small caliber firearm rested in a holster strapped to the officer’s thigh.
“I was just admiring the architecture,” Jake said, turning slightly back toward the building.
“It’s a gorgeous building with many parts of it coming over from Europe.”
“Europe? I’m surprised.”
“French windows, Italian marble.”
Jake studied the edifice with renewed respect. “Manaus is a beautiful city.”
“Don’t placate.”
Jake turned back to face the cop, who had moved a foot closer.
“Garbage litters the street,” the cop said. “After the money wasted on the 2014 World Cup here in Manaus, security became an issue. Our favelas are out of control.”
“Favelas?”
“What you call slums in America.”
“I’m not from America.”
“Do you have slums where you’re from?”
Jake shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Then does it matter where you’re from? You understand the word slums, yes?”
Jake nodded.
The cop fixed his gaze on two teenagers with skateboards, then turned back to Jake. “We have been called a crime-ridden hell-hole by a British newspaper.” He gestured at the couples walking by. “Yet romance still finds a time and place in this hell-hole.”
“I’m sure that description was a bit of an exaggeration.”
The cop eyed him. “Who are you here with?”
“A friend.”
“Male or female?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You are walking alone. You are a foreigner. The sun is almost gone and the thieves and pickpockets are emerging from the cracks they hide behind throughout the day. You might think about walking with this friend of yours or staying near your hotel.”
